


Embers

by thegirloverseas



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Added Thoughts, Character Study, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Falling In Love, Retelling/Rewriting, fill-in-the-blanks, serquel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:08:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24558958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirloverseas/pseuds/thegirloverseas
Summary: How do you fall in love with your enemy? What goes on inside Raquel Murillo's and Sergio Marquina's heads when they're falling for each other?
Relationships: Raquel Murillo/Professor | Sergio Marquina
Comments: 47
Kudos: 105





	1. Point of Departure

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everybody! ♥️
> 
> I've been wanting to do this for a long time because I've been overanalyzing every Serquel moment in seasons one and two, and I thought I might as well do something productive with it. :D It's a little bit of a work in progress, but I hope you'll like it.
> 
> My plan is to write about all major Serquel moments (chronologically) alternating between different POVs, so if you have any specific requests, let me know, and I'll see what I can do. Feel free to message me about this (or anything else) if you want. :)  
> Here's how you can reach me:  
> Twitter: @thegirloverseas  
> Tumblr: thegirloverseas
> 
> As always, I have to thank Evendale for her encouragement and enthusiasm. ♥️ You're the best!
> 
> PS: I am most definitely still going to finish One of Us, I'm just taking a break from it because I'm really stuck, and I'm pressuring myself way too much. I promise I'm going to post the next chapter as soon as I can!

He had planned it. He had planned it all, down to the smallest detail. Every single one of the police’s policies, every single one of their moves, every single person who’d be assigned to the case. He had studied it all. Days, weeks, months, _years_ of tireless work were now coming to fruition. Like clockwork. A carefully designed apparatus. His masterpiece.

Presently, he was sitting at the bar at the Hanoi. It was only logical that Raquel Murillo, the inspector in charge of the case, would come here eventually. After all, this was the only decent café around here. He’d approach her and feel her out. Getting to know her would give him an edge over her during their negotiations, he was sure of it.

He smiled to himself, keeping his eyes on the incessant news coverage of the heist on the screen on the wall. Right now, the media was focused on the complete chaos of the whole situation, the CNI’s failed rescue mission of Allison Parker, the police’s powerlessness. It wouldn’t be long until he’d be able to use the press for his own ends. Another step in his plan. Carefully calculated, meticulously prepared.

He knew Raquel Murillo had left the tent a while ago – the police’s radio was a true blessing – and when she entered the cafe and he heard her voice, he felt an almost giddy feeling of satisfaction rush through him. He had known it would work, but even in his more optimistic calculations, the chances of her showing up here this early in the heist had been slim. And yet here she was. Yes, _yes_ , here she was.

He already knew all the basics: she was originally from Almazán, but had spent the better part of her life in Madrid, she had been in the police force for almost twenty years, she was 40 years old, divorced, and had an eight-year-old daughter, her mother lived with her, and she had a restraining order against her ex-husband. So far, so good. But during his research, he had started to wonder what she was like in person. What kind of person was she? Did she have any weaknesses beyond those on paper?

He made an effort to keep his eyes on the screen, a smile spreading across his face, anticipation bubbling in his veins. He had labored over how to approach her for months, worked on various scenarios – some more plausible than others – fragments of dialogue that echoed through his brain now.

And then –

“Excuse me, do you have a cell phone charger?”

“No.”

– there it was, his golden opportunity.

He did his best to carefully contain his excitement, a dash of nerves and curiosity mixing into it as he turned around. When he laid eyes on her, he only hesitated for a moment.

“Do you want to use mine?” he asked, holding up his phone.

The question was innocent enough. She would never suspect him to be anything but a helpful stranger. She eyed him up and down as if to ascertain his intentions. Either way, this was a win-win situation for him. Even if she declined his offer, contact would have been established. Maybe she’d even remember his kindness. It was perfectly plausible. If she took him up on his offer, on the other hand, now _that_ was the far more interesting scenario. It’d open up a whole new array of possibilities.

He noticed that there was a tiredness in her eyes, exhaustion etched into every part of her body. No wonder, it was 6:25 am. She’d been in that tent for about twelve hours. But maybe that could work in his favor, too. A tired person would sooner or later make mistakes.

“Really? You don’t mind?” she finally asked, and he felt another wave of eager anticipation wash over him.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Thank you,” she said, adding, “I have to make a few calls.”

“No problem.”

“Thanks,” she repeated.

Really, it was no problem at all. Far from it.

He would have smiled to himself, increasingly pleased with himself, with how smoothly this interaction had gone, but he was careful not to show it too much, lest it would ruin his cover as an unsuspicious, uninvolved civilian. After all, he only had one try to get this right. And yet, it couldn’t have gone better, he thought, as he sat there looking at her as she dialed a number on his phone, his whole body almost twitching with triumph. He had gotten _exactly_ what he wanted out of this situation – an unsuspicious introduction, her gratitude, and – if he was lucky – an ounce of her trust, all of which would pave the way for the rest of his plan. From here on out, the rest would be easy.

It was exhilarating, this sense of power he felt he had over her now – and the rest of the police by extension. It had been almost too easy. He felt proud of himself, and, with a supreme effort, tore himself away from her.

First call.

“ _Mamá_ , I just finished. I’m on my way.”

He nodded to himself. Her mother, late 60s, who lived with her.

Second call.

He noticed with curiosity that she turned away from him and his interest increased tenfold.

“This is Inspector Murillo. I know it’s late, but I wanted to tell you that if this is being handled by intelligence because of some sort of diplomatic interests, I’m not going to be your dummy inspector while those gorillas storm the place. So I feel obliged to step down.”

His brain came to a halt. Well, he hadn’t expected _that_. And with it, a part of his beautifully orchestrated plan went down the drain.

“Good night. Or good morning,” she added before hanging up.

Was she serious? He tried his hardest not to look at her. Who would replace her? Angel Rubio? No, too unrefined. Would intelligence take over? They’d put bullet-sized holes in his life’s work. Nothing he and his team couldn’t handle, and yet a threat to a peaceful outcome like the one he had imagined.

He had to admit that she had guts. A woman with principles. It almost made him admire her. Almost. Had it not been for his plan taking its first hit.

“Thank you,” she said, returning his phone to him.

“You’re welcome,” he replied as effortlessly as he could, putting the phone down in front of him, then he resumed staring straight ahead.

He could feel himself grow more anxious by the second. He _needed_ her. He racked his brain trying to find something he could do, something he could say, anything, that would help him rectify the situation.

Suddenly, the screen behind him caught his attention again as video footage of the inspector flashed across the screen. The continuous news coverage of the heist might turn out to be a blessing in disguise… maybe… maybe if he…

“Excuse me, but you’re… It’s you…” he stuttered, nodding towards the screen.

She grimaced, nodding, and turned to her coffee again. Then, thinking better of it, reached into her purse to pull out her wallet, preparing to leave.

“Excuse me, but when you negotiate with those people, do you give them what they want of just play the game to buy some time?” he tried again. Maybe he had gone too far… she was slipping away.

Taking a cue from her shoving her belongings back into her purse, he added, “You don’t have to answer me, I just–”

“Every case is different,” she answered curtly.

“Of course, I’m sorry,” he said, turning to face the bar again.

But then, immediately, her voice softened, “But, well, yes… we try to calm things down and buy some time.” She smiled at him weakly before she took her purse and headed out of the café.

He watched her leave and he realized with a sinking feeling that he’d lost her, and he felt he wasn’t entirely blameless for that. Perhaps his feeble attempt to keep her interested in the case had driven her even further away. Now, he’d have to deal with the consequences and adjust his tactics accordingly. His hands were tied. She had already told her boss she wanted to quit the case. There was nothing he could do about it and he’d just have to accept that.

He grabbed his bagged order from the counter, put a five euro bill in its place and walked back to the hangar. He knew the plan would proceed as planned. And it would succeed as planned if he could help it. But the internal dealings in that tent had thrown a wrench into the works of his intricate stratagem. That, he hadn’t thought about, that the power dynamic inside the tent would force Raquel Murillo out. He vaguely realized that his plan would lose a bit of its definition, its shape. Whoever took Raquel Murillo’s place would very likely not have the same goals, namely solving this heist without violence.

Back at the hangar, he let himself slump into his chair. He felt like he had lost an important puzzle piece. Raquel Murillo was important to him. But she had exited his life as soon as she had entered it, and now he would have to turn a page and start over.


	2. Exposure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hola tod@s! ♥️
> 
> Today I'm bringing you my take on some key Serquel scenes in 1x3 from both Sergio's and Raquel's POV. Let me know what you think!  
> Also, if you want me to cover a specific scene involving Raquel and/or Sergio, let me know in the comments or send me a message on Twitter (@thegirloverseas) or Tumblr (thegirloverseas) - or hit me up just to chat! :)
> 
> I have been a bit slow to respond to everybody's comments, but I will most definitely remedy that in the next couple of days! :)
> 
> (And to those of you who are still waiting for an update of One of Us, I'm trying my hardest to get unstuck - I am still writing it! :))
> 
> For this chapter and for everything, I wanna thank Evendale, my best friend and my partner in heist-related affairs. ♥️ Thank you for nudging my writing in the right direction, thank you for your enthusiasm, thank you for your patience, thank you for all the other things you do. Thank you for being you! ♥️ I don't know what I'd do without you!
> 
> And I also wanna thank Loreak for her help and for keeping me entertained during our writing sessions in the middle of the night. Thank you! ♥️

**Raquel**

There were so many of them. They had practically swarmed the place overnight and were now crowding the places left and right in front of the entrance to the tent as if standing guard. Raquel took a deep breath as she advanced through the crowd of reporters that was only held back by barriers, the clicking of their cameras, arms holding microphones reaching over it and into the pathway that had been cleared and into her way, like vultures coming for their prey.

“Inspector, please.”

“Inspector, is there a conflict between intelligence and the police?”

She ignored the clamor around her as best as she could, but she couldn’t help but wonder: How did they know all these things? It had been mere hours since she had called the commissioner and she didn’t think he was the kind of person to spread office gossip. So how had it gotten out?

She continued moving through the crowd, determined not to give them even an ounce of her attention.

But then–

“Did you step down from negotiations because of your domestic violence allegations?”

“What?”

At the mention of Alberto, she immediately felt uncomfortable. Why did his presence linger even when he wasn’t there? Why was it that she could never get a break from him? Then, a pinch of indignation mixed into her anger. What did her domestic abuse have to do with any of this? She had worked on cases while he had made her life a living hell, and she had worked on cases after, when she was still reeling from the effects the abuse had had on her. Every single one of these cases had been a success. Alberto had nothing to do with the success or failure of this operation whatsoever.

“Alright, that’s enough,” she heard Angel say as he shielded her from the mob and moved her towards the tent.

“How do they know that?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

It couldn’t have been an accident that all of this had gotten out. Maybe the commissioner had said something to someone after all?

She had worked on countless cases before, high-profile cases, too. Cases that the press had covered in detail, examining the motivation of the hostage-takers, speculating about possible outcomes, how long the hostage-taking would last, that sort of thing. But nothing of _this_ magnitude. Nothing that would make the press single her out like that and hold discussions on live television about whether she was a fit candidate to lead this operation, list her credentials like they were up for debate.

In a way, she felt she should have known they would dissect her life, turn it inside out. It was bound to happen. The stakes were significantly higher this time. It was the heist of the century. And just like the hostage-takers’ probability to last another day was constantly being evaluated by the press, so was the police’s. But it was the press’s rapidness that surprised her. She had been a regular person just yesterday and was firmly in the public eye today.

She didn’t like it. She didn’t like it at all.

* * *

**Sergio**

He took his time to clean up after shaving before he went to pick up the phone. He couldn’t deny he was glad she was back, but Raquel Murillo could wait. After that hiccup last night, he was firmly in control again, and he wouldn’t let anything ruin that.

To say that he'd always had faith in the plan would be an understatement. He himself had carefully designed this heist. Admittedly, Raquel Murillo quitting the case had thrown him off his game for just a moment. But she had returned, and so had his luck. He felt calm and in control now, the reins were back in his hands.

On his way to the phone, he turned down the record player, put his jacket on, and then settled himself in his chair before he picked up the phone.

He was the first one to speak, keeping his tone casual and playful. He had her right where he wanted her to be. Back in charge of the investigation and oh so reliant on him. There was really no way for her to solve this but with him. Not that he would let her.

“Aren’t you surprised by this special connection we have? I was just about to call you at this very moment.”

“Well, considering I’m the negotiator and you’re the robber…”

She was quite something, that Inspector Murillo. He liked her. He felt himself smiling at her answer.

“But we shouldn’t allow this crime to interfere with our relationship. I see this as an opportunity.”

“An opportunity for what?”

“To get to know each other. I’m sure if we’d met in a bar, you wouldn’t have paid any attention to me.”

He knew he was playing with fire, just a little bit – it wasn’t something she would immediately connect to meeting him at the Hanoi, but if she did, wouldn’t that make it all the more thrilling, to know that she had met him, to know that she had been _this_ close to him?

But enough of that. He decided that that was enough idle banter for today.

“Tell me, Inspector,” he started, and the corners of his mouth twitched upwards in anticipation of his question, “have you ever faked an orgasm?”

“No.”

Her answer came definitively, if a little delayed, just like he had expected.

“Please, Inspector, I beg you, don’t lie to me. Think about it.”

“Maybe yes, maybe I have. Look, men are programmed to ejaculate within the shortest time. Women, to last the longest time possible. And that fact of nature is sometimes resolved with a fake orgasm.”

Yes, he thought, _perfect_. He would have thanked her for the short excursion into the specifics of the human orgasm. But what a great setup for his conclusion! Seamless, really. They worked well together.

“And that’s nothing more than a small scam. A lie. Like last night’s raid with three elite force teams. Inspector, I’m asking you not to lie to me. You’ll put innocent people at risk.”

“I won’t,” she said curtly. “And now tell me. Why did you want to call me?”

“Look, we need food and some medication: insulin, sertraline, albuterol, an abortion pill, and sedatives.”

“An abortion pill?”

“Requests from the hostages. We all have personal problems, you know?”

“You’ll get your requests.”

“Fine. Civil Protection will make the delivery in clear bags to avoid hidden weapons. And now tell me, you called me to…”

“To ask you to surrender immediately.”

He grinned. How cute. Whyever would he do that?

“I’ve got footage from the inside. I’ve learned the identity of one of you, and if I keep digging, I’ll know the identities of everyone in your gang.”

He grinned wider. Surely she didn’t think he’d fall for that?

“Inspector, I think–“

But she cut him off, and the smile vanished from his lips.

“I’m offering you a deal with the public prosecutor. I can reduce your sentences from sixteen to eight years if you come out now. There are no casualties, which gives me leeway.”

“I don’t think that’s a fair deal. We’d lose.”

“You’ve already lost. Look, in the unlikely event you get out of there, your faces will be on the news, in police stations, and at the border. You’re left without a plan B.”

She _was_ serious about this. Very well, if she wanted to do it this way, two could play this game.

“Then we’ll activate plan C.”

“Do you think I’m bluffing?”

 _Absolutely_. Of course she was.

“Frankly, yes.”

“I’ll tell you something, so you know I’m not lying. You have sixty-seven cell phones attached to the wall with Velcro.”

He froze. How the _fuck_ did she know that?

“You have one hour to accept my offer.”

“Listen, Inspect–”

But she had hung up on him, and he could feel that the scales had become unbalanced again. How had he lost this round?

The disconnect tone rang in his ears. Something about this felt very _very_ wrong. He had been sure she was bluffing up until the very moment she had mentioned the phones they had taped to the wall. All phones had been confiscated. He knew that. She knew it too, but how? All sixty-seven phones were on that wall. She had said it herself.

The only way information got in and out of the Mint was through him. They had control over every camera in the building. It was impossible.

Unless… unless… what if they had missed a phone? A phone that would screw up his plan, render everything he had worked for for the last twenty years useless, null, void.

He would have to call Berlin to make sure that wouldn’t happen.

But then, he realized with a sinking feeling, he would also have to make sure to stay on top of the information that apparently had, despite his best efforts, gotten out. One of their identities had been uncovered. Was it Berlin? Was it Denver? Tokyo? He needed to do damage control. He had to find out who it was. Because Inspector Murillo was right, knowing one of their identities was a slippery slope to knowing all of their identities.

He’d have to meet with her again. He’d have to find out what she knew.

* * *

**Raquel**

“Thanks,” she said as the waiter sat down the plate in front of her. It had been a while since she had gulped down breakfast. She wasn’t feeling all that hungry, though, if she was being honest. But it was way past noon now and she supposed she should try to eat something at least. Plus, maybe it would do her good if she got out of that tent for a while.

Almost despite herself, her eyes became transfixed on the screen straight ahead of her. With that thing right in front of her, she couldn’t _not_ watch. And yet, she wanted nothing less than being forced to watch herself pace across the screen or listen to another analysis of her own decisions. The reporters weren’t there with her in that tent. They didn’t have to make the decisions she had to make. What did they know?

“They’re not going to leave, are they? Those people, I mean. They must be desperate to do something like that, right?” a voice behind her sounded. For a moment she tried to remember where she had heard that voice before but then she remembered that it had been right here in this café, just hours ago.

She half-turned to him. “That’s what makes them so dangerous,” she said, choosing her words carefully.

“No, but they don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Out of his sight, she rolled her eyes.

“Well, that’s what they said,” he added.

Was he trying to get a reaction out of her? What was his deal?

“Then they wouldn’t be armed, don’t you think?” she said, as neutrally as she could.

“Sure, I guess you’re right. But you don’t try to rob the Royal Mint with a slingshot, right?”

She turned to grab her purse and grimaced. Seemed like she wouldn’t be able to spend her break in peace this time either… she hadn’t even touched her lunch and already this guy was bothering her again.

She moved over to the bar, now anxious to get out of this place. “The check, please.”

Perhaps she could find some other place to eat. Wasn’t there another café in one of the adjacent streets? She half-noticed he had followed her to the bar.

“And… do you know how many are there? Because some say there are seven…” he went on next to her, and she wished he would just leave her alone. Couldn’t he or _wouldn’t_ he take the hint?

Her phone rang, and she was suddenly filled with gratitude for whoever was calling. She glanced at the screen. _Thank God for Angel._

“Excuse me,” she said and demonstratively turned away from him.

“Raquel, the kid was at the museum,” she heard Angel say.

She was surprised they had been able to find footage of Anibal Cortez inside the Mint so quickly. She had left the tent not even ten minutes ago and they already had a match? Either the police had outdone themselves, or the thieves had been sloppy.

“When?”

“Three months ago. Cameras caught him during a guided tour.”

This was good news. They had planned this months, perhaps _years_ in advance, but still didn’t bother to conceal their identities scouting out the scene of the crime. Had they been acting recklessly, thinking they’d never be found out – or did they just not care? And now, because they had found Anibal Cortez, they could easily find out some other things, connect the dots, maybe trace his movements back to where they connected to the others… and the Professor.

“Was he alone?”

“No, no, you were right. He was with someone. Listen, we’ve identified another one of the robbers. I just sent you the picture from the police. You should get it right now.”

She hung up and looked at her phone waiting for the picture to load. Two of the robbers for the price of one? Maybe she would finally have an edge over that guy who called himself the Professor. The advantage was slim, but it was hers nonetheless.

But suddenly, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. That weird guy in the suit behind her… he’d been here yesterday too. In fact, now that she thought about it, he had been here when she had called the commissioner to quit. He had been right next to her. It must have been him. Of course it was him. That’s how it had gotten out. That was why those reporters had swarmed the place when she had returned to work today. It had been him. It had to have been him.

She turned her head ever so slightly, as if unintentionally, as if in thought.

Yes, yes, he was watching her, his head turned in her direction, his eyes looking at her phone.

It was him.

In one swift motion, she twisted his arm behind his back and slammed him, face first, on the counter.

* * *

**Sergio**

Every action has an equal opposite reaction. He couldn’t help but think about this as his face hit the counter. It seemed he had pushed her a little too far, and now he’d have to pay the price for that.

This was not exactly how he had wanted or expected this to go. He had known she’d eventually grow suspicious of him, he had even expected her to search him. But _this_ … having her this close to him, her manhandling him like this, had genuinely rendered him speechless for a moment.

“Where is it?” she asked running her hand over his sides and over the pockets of his coat. His arm was still uncomfortably twisted behind his back as she patted him down.

“What are you talking about?”

The next moment, she turned him back around again with almost the same force she had used to slam him against the counter.

“Where is the recorder?”

Her hands were still all over his body, running over his chest, dipping into his pockets, coming up empty-handed.

He regretted that this was happening without him actually getting what he had wanted. He hadn’t gotten any of the answers he needed. Eavesdropping on her had just confirmed what he already knew. But then again maybe he shouldn’t feel disappointed. He hadn’t gotten what he wanted, but he also technically hadn’t lost anything. Well, not yet.

This might have screwed up his carefully planned chance encounters with Raquel Murillo – he hadn’t planned on seeing and interacting with her again so soon after their first encounter… had it been up to him, he would have spent less time on the offensive, would have lingered in the background of the Hanoi until she had gotten accustomed to his presence – fate, however, had forced his hand.

“But… what recorder?” he pressed out. It was hard to think clearly with her hands all over him.

“It’s just a coincidence you’re here every day asking questions, right? Who do you work for?”

He knew she wouldn’t find anything. He would have been stupid to pick ‘journalist’ as his cover.

“What?”

Still, her nearness and the persistence of her search flustered him, and he felt his control slipping.

“From what fucking media outlet are you?”

If a random guy had come near him like this more than once, he would have very much suspected he had an ulterior motive too. And of course the most obvious reason she would assume was that he was a journalist.

With effort, he regained his control, his voice firm again when he spoke next. “I’m not a reporter. My name is Salvador Martín. Check my wallet. Antonio, please. Please–” he said with just the right amount of helplessness in his voice to attract the bartender’s help. Theatrics were important.

“What’s wrong, Salva?” Antonio asked, coming closer from behind the counter.

“I don’t know…”

He knew perfectly well, of course.

Naturally, Inspector Murillo would suspect he was up to something if he came too close, asked too many questions. He would have been gravely disappointed had she not. In a way, he admired her thoroughness… though, unfortunately, it had come at his expense.

He was glad Antonio was here to vouch for him. Well, not him, but the persona he had constructed.

The key to constructing any kind of alter ego was layers. Lots and lots of them you could peel away, if needed, and still never reveal the person who was hiding underneath. The trick was to model the persona on one’s own experiences and personality so that the cover was still believable but different enough to obscure everything that might otherwise be a dead giveaway. Scraps of himself and meticulously created backstories wrapped in the charm of a friendly stranger. He had perfected his craft, had carefully constructed layer after layer of this persona – Salvador Martín. _Salva_.

Personally, he thought his choice of name was a nice touch. The name was his Dalí mask outside the Mint. And yet a name like any other.

Just like Salvador Martín was a person like any other. And Salvador Martín was definitely not a reporter.

“I know him. He comes here every day,” Antonio stated.

Yes, Salvador Martín came to this café every day for lunch or dinner, sometimes breakfast – whatever Sergio Marquina’s schedule would allow. Salvador liked turkey sandwiches, and he liked ice in his coke. On occasion, he would strike up a conversation with Antonio or one of his colleagues. He was a friendly person, reserved, but curious, humble. A wholly agreeable person. Someone who would be quite shaken by the inspector’s unexpected and rough behavior.

He watched her eyes dart back and forth between him and Antonio, trying to ascertain the truth of their claims, and she didn’t seem entirely satisfied with what she found.

Finally, she raised her hands in defeat, and he watched her as she grabbed her things and retreated from the scene.

His persona had survived this first encounter, but as he watched her leave the café, he was beginning to wonder if maybe he had misjudged _her_. There was something about her that didn’t quite make sense to him, an aspect of her that eluded him, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! (I will love you forever!)


End file.
